He slumped in his chair as Bulstrode took the letter and spread the pages out on his desk. It was fear that made him hand them over, a chicken-guts fear of appearing even more stupid in the damned woman’s eyes than he was already. He knew he would never remove the shame of that moment with Rolly from his mind, it would be a lifetime image, bubbling up at random time and again to blight his joy and deepen depression. And also the image of the girl locked in the root cellar listening to the approaching steps of her tormentor, and he’d never now be able to help her with that through love, he’d screwed that up too, you asshole, Crosetti, you complete turd…

“Can you read it, Professor?”

This was Rolly; the sound of her voice jerked Crosetti from the dear land of self-flagellation, Bulstrode cleared his throat heavily, and said, “Oh, yes, indeed. The hand is crude but quite clear. A man I imagine who did a good deal of writing. Not an educated man, I think, not a university man, but a writing man all the same. A clerk perhaps? Originally, I mean.” Bulstrode returned to his reading. Time passed, perhaps half an hour, that seemed like time in the dentist’s chair to Crosetti. At last the professor sat up and said, “Hm, yes, in all, a very interesting and valuable document. This,” he continued, pointing, “seems to be the last letter of a man named Richard Bracegirdle, who apparently was wounded at the battle of Edgehill, the first major battle of the English Civil War, which took place on October 23, 1642. He is writing from Banbury, it seems, a town close to the battlefield.”

“What about Shakespeare?” Crosetti asked.

Bulstrode regarded him quizzically and blinked behind his thick spectacles. “Excuse me? Did you think there was some reference to Shakespeare in this?”

“Well, yeah! That’s the whole point. This guy says he spied on Shakespeare. That he had an autograph copy of one of his plays, in fact, that he was the one who got Shakespeare to write one of his plays for the king. It’s right there on the signature page.”

“Really. Dear me, Mr. Crosetti, I assure you there’s nothing of that sort. Secretary hand can be quite confusing to ah…an amateur, and people can see all sorts of meanings that don’t exist, rather like finding pictures in clouds.”

“No, look, it’s right here,” said Crosetti and came out of his chair and around the desk. Picking up the manuscript and indicating the relevant lines, he said, “This is the part I mean. It says, ‘They tell all the tale nearly of our spying upon the secret papist Shaxpur. Or so we thought him although now I am less certain. In that manner and bent of life he was a nothing. But certain it is he wrought that play of Scotch M. I commanded of my Lord D. his plot and of him in the king’s name. I find passing strange that all though I am dead and him also yet the play lives still, writ in his own hand and lying where only I know and there may it rest forever.’”

Bulstrode adjusted his eyeglasses and issued a dry chuckle. He picked up the magnifier he had been using and placed it over a line of text. “Very imaginative, I must say, Mr. Crosetti, but you’re quite mistaken. What this says is, ‘I shall tell to you of the sale of gems secretly proper Salust.’ The man must have been some sort of factor in Salisbury for this Lord D. Then it goes on, ‘Of these thefts I lack shriving. In that manner and bent of life I was a nothing.’ And further along he writes ‘the pearls live still willed by his own hand,’ and he says he alone knows where they are. I’m not entirely sure of what ‘willed by his own hand’ means, but in any case the man was clearly dying and probably in intense distress. He seems to flit from subject to subject. In fact, much of this may be pure fantasy, going through his life in a kind of terminal delirium. But the document is interesting enough as it is without bringing in Shakespeare.”

“What does the rest of it say?”

“Oh, it contains a quite vivid description of the battle itself, and these are always of interest to military historians. And apparently he served in the early stages of the Thirty Years’ War, ditto. He was at White Mountain, Lützen, and Breitenfeld, although he gives no detail about these. Pity. A professional artillerist, it seems, and trained as a cannon-founder. He also claims to have made a voyage to the New World and been shipwrecked off Bermuda. A very interesting seventeenth-century life, even a remarkable life, and potentially of great value to certain narrow fields of study, although I suspect there’s also a touch of Munchausen in his narrative. But nothing about Shakespeare, I’m afraid.” A pause here. Leaden silence for a good thirty seconds; then, “I would be happy to purchase it from you, if you like.”

Crosetti looked at Carolyn, who returned a neutral stare. He swallowed and asked, “For how much?”

“Oh, for a Jacobean manuscript of this quality I should think perhaps, ah, thirty-five would be the going rate.”

“Dollars?”

An indulgent smile. “Hundred, of course. Thirty-five hundred. I could write you a check now if you like.”

Crosetti felt his belly twist, and the sweat started to bead up on his forehead. This was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. His father had always talked about instinct, although he always called it his gut, how you always went with your gut when you were out on the street in harm’s way. Crosetti’s gut made him say, “Uh, thanks, but I think I’d like a second opinion. I mean on the translation. Um, no offense, Dr. Bulstrode, but I’d like to eliminate the possibility that…” He gestured haphazardly, not willing to put it into words. He had remained standing after handling the manuscript, so it was an easy matter to snatch the papers from Bulstrode’s desk and slip them into the brown paper wrapper. Bulstrode shrugged and said, “Well, suit yourself, although I doubt you’ll get a better price.” Turning then to Carolyn, he asked, “And how is dear Sidney these days? Quite recovered from the shock of the fire I hope.”

“Yes, he’s fine,” said Carolyn Rolly in a voice so unlike her own that Crosetti stopped wrapping and looked at her. Her face was pained in a way he could not interpret. She said, “Crosetti, would you step outside for a minute with me? Excuse us, Professor.”

Bulstrode smiled a plump formal smile and gestured to his door.

Outside, a scant summer population of students and professors passed to and fro; it was clearly the interval between classes. Rolly grabbed Crosetti’s arm and pulled him into an alcove, the first time since the crying jag of the previous evening that she had touched him. She clung to his arm and spoke vehemently in a hoarse tense voice. “Listen! You have to let him have those goddamn papers.”

“Why do I? He’s obviously trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”

“Not our eyes, Crosetti. He’s right. There’s no mention of Shakespeare. It’s some petty clerk running a scam and dying and confessing his sins.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not? What’s your evidence? Wishful thinking and three hours’ experience with secretary hand?”

“Maybe, but I’m going to show it to someone else, someone I trust.”

As he said this, he saw her eyes grow fat with tears and her face began to crumple. “Oh, God,” she cried, “oh, God, don’t let me come apart now! Crosetti, don’t you get it? He knows Sidney. Why do you think he mentioned him just now?”

“Okay, he knows Sidney-so what?”

“So what! Jesus, man, don’t you see? He knows the manuscript came out of the Voyages, so he knows I’m taking the book apart. And that means…”

“You’re not just breaking it, like Sidney told you to. You’re trying to doctor it, which means you’re going to try to sell it. And he’s, what? Threatening to tell Sidney unless we give him the manuscript?”

“Of course! He’ll tell him, and then Sidney…I don’t know, he’ll fire me for sure and he might call the cops. I’ve seen him do it with shoplifters. He’s nuts that way, people stealing books and I can’t…I can’t take the chance…oh, God, this is horrible!”